


Petrichor

by fedorah



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, One-Shot, fight and making up, prompt, two idiots in love, weather equals mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fedorah/pseuds/fedorah
Summary: It was a pretty bad day.The air was thick and heavy. The trees surrounding their little cottage were eerily still, no leaves stirring in a breeze. The flowers, usually vibrant and cheerful, seemed dull and tired, letting their heads hang low.It was hot.Martín feels the weather get to him and lashes out. Mirko is tired of being his punching bag... Something‘s gotta give.
Relationships: Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dana_norram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/gifts).



> Thank you to the brilliant and lovely [dana_norram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram) who gave me exactly the advice that I needed to get this story to where it needed to be.
> 
> Aside from that she is also a pretty amazing human being and a busy little bee, which is just fortunate for us, because it means she writes amazing fiction - and if you didn‘t know that already, you should check it out!
> 
> But first read this! I hope you like! Enjoy!

**Petrichor**

It was a pretty bad day.

The air was thick and heavy. The trees surrounding their little cottage were eerily still, no leaves stirring in a breeze. The flowers, usually vibrant and cheerful, seemed dull and tired, letting their heads hang low.

It was hot.

The only sound came from the bees happily buzzing despite the heat, always busy.

In the garden, there stood a cherry tree that had beautiful pink blossoms in spring, but was smelling cloyingly sweet in the summer, and was currently carrying a few handfuls of cherries - or what was left of them after the blackbirds had descended upon them. In the little shade that it granted stood a wooden bench and on it sat Martín.

In his hand he had a bottle of beer, and it really was the only thing making him stay there and not hide inside from the heat. It was still cold enough and the condensated water outside the bottle felt freezing on his hand and was dripping down his fingers and on his knee, annoying him to no end.

He took another sip and swished it around in his mouth.

He was trying to think and clear his head, but it felt as if he was stuck in a maze. Everything felt to heavy and he was running circles inside his own mind.

Something didn‘t feel right.

He swatted at a buzzing sound next to his head, only to feel a sting a second later on his leg. Damn blood suckers. He scratched at his shin, only to curse himself the next second, when he saw the angry red mark.

He pressed the bottle against the spot, but the relief was not as great as he had hoped.

He felt like an intruder in his own garden.

Leaning back and putting the bottle once more to his mouth, he let the last swallow run down his throat. As he was looking up, the sun blinded him through the leaves.

With a sigh, he heaved himself off the bench and made his way back to the house. He hissed when his bare feet touched the burning stone steps and quickly stepped on the dry grass next to them instead. It was bristly under his soles, but at least did not feel like walking on lava.

He crossed the small terrace in front of the house with two leaping steps and threw himself inside the house, almost hurting his foot in the process.

Inside, it was marginally better, if still stifling. At least it was darker, since he had drawn all the curtains in their living room and the adjourning kitchen. He put the bottle on the counter which divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room and turned to the fridge.

He opened the door and couldn’t resist to stick his head inside and just enjoy the cool air on his face for a few minutes. Then he opened his eyes again face to face with left over salad from yesterday that looked all mushy and weird, and frowned at it as if it had done him a great disservice.

This was not Martín‘s day, for sure.

He closed the door again without getting anything and made his way to the couch, to slouch around there for a while.

There was nothing to do and nowhere to go. He was trapped.

He had just buried his face in the bright red cushion, when he heard the front door open and close again after a short while.

„I‘m home!“

He grunted in acknowledgement but didn‘t move from his spot.

„Martín?“

He turned his head slightly to squint at Mirko, standing next to the counter and unloading things from his bag. He looked like a man on a mission.

„What?“

Mirko frowned slightly at his tone, but quickly recovered the smile on his face.

„I brought peaches. And rum, coke, and lime juice. We could make some cocktails?“

He grunted and buried his face in the cushion again.

Footsteps came closer and then halted.

When nothing further happened, he squinted up at him again.

„What is it?“

Now the frown definitely replaced the smile.

„I‘m asking you. What‘s wrong?“

Mirroring his expression, Martín turned around more fully to face him.

„Nothing is wrong with me. Do you think there is something wrong with me?“

Mirko rolled his eyes and turned his back on him to go back to his purchases.

„Hey! Don‘t roll your eyes at me! Turn around!“

When Mirko turned around halfway to send him a look that said more than a thousand words, Martín couldn‘t really explain what was happening to him, but he felt an anger cooking up inside of him, he hadn‘t felt in a long time.

„Why do you roll your eyes at me? Huh? Tell me.“

Mirko again turned his back and started to put his things in the fridge.

„You know why, dumbass. You‘re being an asshole.“

Martín could almost feel his blood boil.

„Oh, well, maybe you should have thought about that before shacking up with me. Don‘t roll your eyes at me when you‘re the stupid one.“

At that, Mirko shut the fridge and turned back around to glare at him. His voice was calm but with a controlled anger underneath.

„I‘m stupid, alright. But not stupid enough to fall for this bullshit. You talk yourself down and want me to build you back up again? Well, that makes you the stupid one, Señor Ingeniero.“

With a dismissive gesture, he grabbed his cigarettes from the counter and left through the still open back door into the garden.

Martín, now fueled by rage surpassing his exhaustion, stormed out after him.

It still felt like walking into a wall of heat, but the weather seemed to have made a turn and not for the better, but neither of them paid it any mind as they came to a halt in front of each other.

„Come on, Helsinki, get it off your chest. Tell me what you think of me. Clearly, there is something you wish to share.“

Again, Mirko rolled his eyes up the heavens.

„Alright, Palermo. I think you‘re an asshole. Fuck off.“

And he looked down to light his cigarette. It took a few trys and he cupped his free hand around the flame to protect it from the rising wind.

Martín eyed him jealously and wished he could take a cigarette for himself, but he couldn’t ask and didn’t have any. They usually shared their packs. Did he have anything for himself?

Thunder rolled in the distance. He felt a stab of pain through his head and it added to his anger.

„If I‘m such an asshole, why are you here in the first place?“

When Mirko didn‘t react and only blew out a lung full of smoke, he needed to go further.

„I think I know why. Because no-one else would even look at you twice. What have you got to offer, huh? You‘re not smart, you‘re not pretty. The only thing you can do is kill. You destroy everything you touch. I‘m an engineer. I create things. I‘m young. I‘m hot. You should worship the ground I walk on for even giving you the time of day.“

With a violent flick of his arm, Mirko threw his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, just as another clap of thunder shook them.

„Sounds like you‘re better off without me.“

And without another word or even a look at his face, Mirko brushed past him, half shoving him aside with his shoulder, and went back inside.

A moment later, Martín heard the front door slam and then the car engine start. He could see their car turn and drive off on the dirt road.

As if someone had turned a switch, it started to rain in buckets.

Martín just stood there and let it happen. As the water soaked his clothes, the anger drained out of him and left him empty.

What had he been angry about in the first place?

He couldn‘t remember. He just knew it was worse being alone than being with Mirko.

In the next moment, he resented himself for needing him so much.

He rubbed a hand over his face and water out of his eyes.

Step by step, he trudged back to the door, closing it behind him. The wooden floor inside felt slippery under his wet feet and he tread carefully. It felt as if any misstep could leave him sprawled on the floor. Abandoned.

Somehow, he made his way to the bathroom. He left the drenched clothes on the floor and stepped into the shower. It felt just like the rain outside, so he made it quick and dried himself off roughly, leaving the towel next to his clothes.

Pulling on the first clothes he could find in the closet, he only noticed the black hoodie was Mirko‘s when it hung far too big on his frame, but he couldn‘t bring himself to change again.

There were still bottles of rum and coke on the kitchen counter and Martín found himself just staring at them for a moment. Then he put them in the fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cabinet.

Like a mockery of civilized drinking, he filled a water glass with the liquor and took it back the couch. Something kept him from taking the whole bottle and it sounded suspiciously like Mirko.

He sipped it and let it burn down his throat, as he lay there watching the storm clouds moving past outside. It had turned dark, despite the afternoon hour, and only the occasional lightening strike illuminated the empty landscape outside.

It seemed like he was the only man for miles and miles.

Hours passed in a blur.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, for he woke with a start. It was pitch black outside, but still the rain kept on falling.

He crept from room to room but found the house empty.

He returned to his spot on the couch feeling just as void.

It was a bit chilly, but he couldn‘t be bothered to stand up again to grab a blanket. Instead, he just pulled up the hood of his hoodie and drew the sleeves over his hands.

He fell back into a restless sleep, full of moving shadows and disappointed murmurs.

Something was different when he opened his eyes again.

Soft light filtered through the curtains. A small breeze brushed his cheek from the open door to the garden. He was sure that he had closed it last night.

His head hurt and his mouth tasted foul.

When he sat upright, a blanket fell off him and pooled around his waist. He blinked in confusion, but then a wave of relief washed through his body, so powerful it almost made him sob.

As promptly as his head allowed, he stood up and gingerly walked to the open door. He stepped outside and took a moment to close his eyes and just breathe.

The sun was a warm caress on his brow and the air was clear and fresh. The smell of wet earth and dusty fields after rain permeated everything and alleviated his headache like a miracle cure. He could feel it running through his body, riding through his veins, carrying its freshness and newness into the dusty corners of his mind and leaving him a new man.

He opened his eyes again and took a look around.

The garden was alive with bees and butterflys. The colorful flowers that Mirko had planted in every spot he could reach were teeming with life and stretching their blossoms into the air. Even the heavy sunflowers seemed refreshed and the strawberries added their alluring odor to the magnificent atmosphere surrounding him.

Finally, his eyes strayed to their spot under the cherry tree.

Mirko sat in the middle of the bench, one foot propped up on his knee, both arms spread out along the backrest, like a king surveying his realm.

Immediately, Martín felt his shoulders droop as if a blanket of guilt was weighing them down. Still, he kept his head up and held his gaze, while he slowly walked the few steps with his hands buried inside the pouch of his oversized hoodie.

Today, the stone steps were rough but blessedly cool under his feet.

Mirko‘s face remained unreadable as he tracked his advance. When he stood next to him, he examined him for a moment, but then scooted over a few inches, indicating that Martín should sit down.

He did. Mirko‘s arm was behind him and his warmth so close, but he did not dare lean into it.

Only now did he notice that Mirko had prepared a thermos of coffee and brought two mugs. His mug - a silly one with a bear and a joke about early mornings that Martín had gotten him on a whim - was already filled and from it steam rose in a gentle waft. His own usual mug - a pretty one with geometrical patterns - was still empty.

„Coffee?“ Mirko asked.

Martín looked at him and his friendly if guarded expression, and could only nod, the lump in his throat prohibiting any verbal expression.

Mirko filled his mug with one hand, but left his other arm behind him on the backrest, even slightly brushing his back with it when he was leaning forward.

He gratefully took the mug in his hands and buried his nose in it, letting the delicious aroma of coffee add to the mix of scents of the morning.

For a long while they didn‘t say anything, just sat there sipping coffee and looking at the flowers.

„You have a big heart.“

Mirko turned towards him at the non sequitur, but didn‘t say anything.

„You have a nice smile that lights up a room. You‘re kind to everyone, especially those that don‘t deserve it. Like me.“

He looked like he wanted to interrupt, but Martín just carried on.

„You‘re hardworking. You turned this little strip of dry earth into a paradise. You made a home for us in this foreign place. And you made me coffee after I abused you so much...“

He bit his lip and put down the mug. The arm behind him now curled around his shoulders and pulled him into Mirko‘s side.

„So you see,“ he cleared his throat and blinked away the wetness in his eyes, „there are tons of reasons why I love you. And I know I don‘t deserve you. And I‘m sorry I am so fucked in the head.“

Mirko‘s big hand rubbed comforting circles on his upper arm and he cleared his throat too, a deep rumble in his chest.

„And I‘m good in bed.“

„What?“

He saw the sly smirk now and the mischief in his eye.

„Don‘t deny it. If we had neighbours, you would keep them awake with how much you enjoy what I do to you.“

They both laughed under their breath and something loosened between them.

After a short silence, Martín leant his head on Mirko‘s shoulder and whispered „I love you“ into his ear.

Mirko pressed a kiss to his forehead and rumbled in agreement.

„I‘m sorry I was gone all night. The street was flodded and I had to turn back and spend the night in the room above the pub.“

Martín relaxed a tiny bit more.

„I‘m just glad you‘re here now.“

„Me too.“

They just sat next to each other for a while and observed their little paradise. A soft breeze shook the leaves overhead and one was loosened and swept along, dancing through the air. Martín followed its path with his eyes down the meadow. Somehow his gaze stuck there, at the other end of the garden and a small smirk appeared on his face.

„I think I will build myself a shed over there. For my workshop.“

Mirko quirked an eyebrow at him but was all smiles.

„Your workshop?“

Martín grinned, already seeing it in his mind.

„Yeah. My workshop.“

Mirko pressed a kiss to his cheek that made him grin even more.

„Good.“

The rest of the day was spent lounging around in the garden, until Mirko got antsy and started tending to his beloved plants. Then they played cards until Mirko declared he hated his life and Martín laughed so much he forgot to breathe.

In the evening, Martín prepared a barbecue and Mirko made cocktails and lit candles. They talked into the small hours of the morning - of things they had done, things they would like to do, things they could accomplish now they had money. They talked about their regrets and their lost friends.

Later, they were wrapped around each other and no more words were needed.

It was a pretty good day.

**Author's Note:**

> Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrɪkɔːr/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek petra (πέτρα), "rock", or petros (πέτρος), "stone", and īchōr (ἰχώρ), the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology.  
> (Source: wikipedia)
> 
> Fascinated by this word, [dana_norram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dana_norram/pseuds/dana_norram) and I both prompted each other to write a Helermo one-shot (1000 to 3000 words) with Petrichor as the title and post it at the same time.
> 
> We both went in different directions - we are curious to see how you like it! So make sure to check out [hers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654960) as well!
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


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